Time of Departure

by Douglas Schofield

  It took me a second to absorb all this. “Okay,” I replied. “It sounds like I was out of it. But as of this minute, I’m awake and alert and a bit pissed off. Please make sure Dr. Weaver gets the message: Any treatment without my written consent will result in a lawsuit.”

  Gertie grinned. “Got it!”

  “And, Gertie, thank you for taking care of me.”

  “My job. Thanks for making it interesting. Want something else to eat?”

  “You know what? I’d love a hamburger.”

  “We’ve got a McDonald’s.”

  “In the hospital?”

  “No. Across the street.”

  “One problem … Unless my purse is in that closet, I have no money.”

  “No purse. But I’ll get you something.”

  “A Quarter Pounder?”

  “Sure.”

  Gertie was as good as her word. I’d forgotten how terrific fast food can sometimes taste. Afterwards, I slept like a baby, undisturbed by skulking doctors and nurses, and awoke at first light.

  As I washed up in the bathroom and got ready to meet the day, I was already ticking off the things I would need to do to get my life back on track: call my mother; start on the tedious process of replacing all my lost IDs; borrow a key from my landlord so I could get into my town house; find my spare car key; beg a lift back to DeLand to pick up my car … The list in my head kept getting longer.

  35

  It has been said that one of the marks of genius is the ability to explain complex ideas in simple language. Albert Einstein once summarized, in only ten words, the intersection between human perception and the true nature of matter, space, and time: “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”

  According to the clock on the wall in the hospital’s admissions office, it was 8:46 A.M. when Gertie showed me in. Earlier, while getting dressed, I’d found my watch tucked in a pocket of my jeans. It had stopped at exactly one minute to seven—either the battery was dead or river water had gotten into it.

  A woman in her forties was sitting behind a low counter. She watched us approach. Her shoulder-length bleached-blond hair, parted in the middle to frame her face, gave the immediate impression of someone desperate to forestall the aging process. But what caught my attention was her makeup. It looked like it had been applied with a palette knife. There might have been an attractive face under all the Max Factor enamel, but it was hard to tell.

  “Sally, this is Claire Talbot,” Gertie told her. “She’s the patient I spoke to Mr. Aldridge about. The lady from 202.”

  “Uh-huh.” The woman gave me a once-over. “Officer’s on his way.”

  “What officer?” I asked.

  “From Gainesville,” she drawled. “They’re sendin’ a detective to pick y’all up.”

  “Great! Somebody must have got to Geiger.”

  “I guess.…” Gertie sounded a bit uncertain. “Well, I’d better get myself back to the ward. You take care of yourself, Claire.”

  “Thanks. You, too!” I gave her a hug, a move that seemed to startle both her and the enameled receptionist. Gertie squeezed my hand and left. In the corridor, she gave me a little wave before the door swung shut.

  I turned my attention to Sally. “You must have some paperwork for me to fill out.”

  “Y’all the train-wreck lady, rahht?”

  “Yes! I—”

  “Officer’s on his way.”

  “You said that. But what about my hospital charges?”

  “Y’all could have a seat.” She nodded to a chair sitting against the wall on my left. “Said he’d be here by nine.”

  Flummoxed, I sat down.

  That’s when I started to notice some strange things.

  It began with an unfamiliar sound—a sort of muffled clacking noise. It was coming from somewhere behind Sally. I craned to look. Today was Sunday, so I wasn’t surprised that most of the desks were unoccupied. But one lone secretary was working near the back wall. She was typing on one of those old electric typewriters … the one with the moving typeball.

  I thought that was totally weird. I mean, who uses a Selectric in this day and age?

  Then I noticed that all the desks had typewriters.

  My mind tumbled back over the last few days. Vinyl-covered furniture, steam radiators, starched nurses’ uniforms … now typewriters! This hospital was taking the traditional approach a bit too far. I began to wonder if it was an accredited facility. How would it ever pass muster with the state regulators?

  I was about to get up and start cross-examining Sally when my eyes were drawn to a calendar on the wall above the reception counter. The picture depicted a typical Florida beach scene. The month of March was showing on the calendar page below. But the days were in the wrong place. Today was the first Sunday of the month. It should have been the sixth.

  The calendar said it was the fifth.

  Then I noticed the year.

  1978.

  What the—?

  “Sally?”

  She looked up.

  “Why is that there?” I pointed.

  “It’s a calendar.”

  “I know it’s a calendar! Why is it a 1978 calendar?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  My mind flashed on The Prisoner. Was someone trying to screw with my mind?

  If so … why?

  I lurched to my feet. “Okay, what the hell is going on here?”

  Sally and the secretary straightened in their chairs, startled by my raised voice. Behind me, the door from the corridor opened. Footsteps approached. I paid no attention. I stepped to the counter, my eyes fixed on Sally. “I asked a question!”

  A male figure appeared to my right. Sally turned to him, eyes wide.

  “I’m here to pick up a patient,” the man said. “A Miss Talbot.”

  I froze at the sound of the voice.

  Sally replied with a quick nod toward me.

  Slowly, I turned my head.

  The man was tall and fit. He was wearing a sports jacket, slacks, and an open-necked dress shirt.

  I stared at him, openmouthed.

  “You’re Miss Talbot?” he asked.

  My breathing became ragged. I felt my body sway. Obviously alarmed, the man reached out to steady me. I backed away and collapsed into the chair.

  “Miss Talbot! What is it? Are you all right?”

  Sally’s voice drifted from the background. “Poor thing’s bin like that, bless her heart. Doctor’s sayin’ she’s confused. Laak, ya know … confused?”

  I slowly raised my head. I was looking straight into the startling blue eyes of a thirty-something clone of Marc Hastings.

  A voice said, “This can’t happen.”

  I think it was my voice, but it sounded far away.

  * * *

  I must have blacked out, because the next thing I remember is waking up on a bed in a curtained-off cubicle. I was fully clothed. An oxygen mask covered my nose and mouth. It took me a second to deduce that I was in the ER. I yanked off the mask. I could see Gertie and the Marc Hastings clone standing just outside the partly drawn curtains. The clone noticed I was awake. He whispered to Gertie, and she came to me.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “You keep scaring us,” she said gently.

  “Well, now you people are scaring me,” I replied. I struggled to sit up. “I want out of this place! Now!”

  Gertie stood up and backed away. She looked faintly offended. “I’ll check with the doctor.”

  “No doctors! I’m leaving now!”

  Gertie stopped. She appeared uncertain.

  Marc’s clone intervened. “I’ll take care of her.” He opened a billfold, extracted a business card, and handed it to her. I caught the glint of a police badge. “Please ask your accounts department to send Miss Talbot’s bill to our office.”

  Gertie took the card. “Okay. Good-bye again, Claire.”

  “Bye, Gertie. And thank you.”

  Gertie pulled back the c
urtain and left. As soon as she disappeared from view, I turned to the cop. “Tell me your name!”

  “Detective Hastings, ma’am. I’m with the Gainesville police.”

  “First name! What’s your first name?”

  “Marcus.”

  “Sure it is! I don’t know what you people are up to, but I’m not falling for it! Show me one of those cards of yours!”

  He handed one to me. I studied it and felt a rising sense of panic. I shot him an accusing look. “He only mentioned a daughter!”

  “What?”

  “Your father! What’s his name? It’s Marcus, isn’t it? Same as yours!”

  He looked at me as if I were insane. “His name was Robert. Why?”

  “‘Was’?”

  “He died several years ago. Did you know him?”

  “What is going on here?” I was starting to lose it.

  “I’m not sure how to answer that. I’m just here to take you back to Gainesville.”

  I slid off the bed. “Why would the Gainesville PD send an officer to pick me up?”

  “I guess … because you were pulled out of the river with no ID. And because you claim you fell off a train and you gave a Gainesville address.”

  I decided not to get into the falling-off-a-train thing. Instead, I shot back with: “So, you think I’m either a victim of crime or some kind of nutcase, is that it?”

  He was polite enough not to answer, but the tilt of his head told me I’d pretty well summed it up.

  By now, my rational mind was shrieking: Why are you going along with this charade? Get a grip!

  In my short life, I had found that the best way to deal with overwhelming pressure was to focus on small necessary tasks and execute them one by one. Such an approach was crucial when I was trying to get a handle on a big, legally complex prosecution file. I was definitely feeling overwhelmed, so I gave myself a hard mental slap and cast around for my shoes. I spotted them under the bedside table.

  I leaned on the bed and slipped them on.

  Left foot … good …

  Now right foot …

  Okay. Now check your pockets.…

  Of course there was nothing in my pockets except my moribund watch. Everything else had been in my jacket and my purse.

  I faced my cloned minder. “Okay, Junior. What now?”

  He grinned, and it was the same grin I had come to love … back in the real world.

  Not the grin of a killer.

  Definitely not.

  But then, I’d heard it said that Ted Bundy had a winning smile.

  Stop it!

  “Do you mind if I ask how old you are?” he asked.

  “Thirty-one.”

  “In that case, I’ll let you call me Junior.”

  “I’ll bite. How old are you?”

  “Thirty. But I’m working real hard on thirty-one. Shall we go?”

  I was busy redoing the Marc math in my head that I had already done back … whenever that was. The numbers came out the same. That is, the numbers would be right if this were 1978—which it fucking well couldn’t be!

  “I’m sure your people have some new trick lined up,” I said. “Let’s see if they can pull it off.”

  “What trick?”

  “Making me believe this is 1978! Isn’t that your weird game here?”

  His brow furrowed. “It is.”

  “Thought so!” I waved an arm at him. “The question is, why?”

  “I meant … it is 1978.”

  I felt my jaw tighten. “Yeah? Well, here’s your chance to prove it, Junior! Lead the way!”

  Looking bemused, he escorted me out of the emergency ward. My eyes scanned left and right as we walked, taking in every detail: the glass IV bottles; the typewriter at the nursing station; the male orderly with the—was that a mullet haircut?; the wan faces peering at us from vinyl chairs in the ER waiting room …

  The headline on a newspaper:

  SOVIETS SET SPACE ENDURANCE RECORD

  “Either you’ve hired a really good set designer,” I told the Marc clone, “or this stupid hospital could use an upgrade! Where are you taking me, anyway? To some village where I’ll never be able to escape? I mean, what’s the point to all this?” I was babbling now, whistling in the dark to keep the rising horror at bay. I could no longer deny that something was wrong.

  Seriously, seriously wrong.

  Maybe I just need to wake up.

  That’s it, I thought. This just had to be—had to be!—some crazy extended dream. Okay, Claire, just go with it. You’ll wake up soon.

  Then I had another thought.

  What if I’m dead? What if I really did die in that train wreck?

  What if this was some kind of bizarre, undreamed-of afterlife? I once read about an African American woman who had nearly drowned. She’d been brought back from the brink of death by a lifeguard and an off-duty fireman. After she recovered, the woman related a strange tale about finding herself in an African marketplace, centuries before European contact, and being sold to an Arab slave trader.

  Maybe the woman hadn’t really been describing an afterlife. Maybe she was describing a before-life experience. An experience from an earlier lifetime.

  The detective’s voice jerked me back from my tortured speculations. “I’m sorry, miss, but I’m afraid you’re not making a lot of sense.”

  I grabbed his sleeve. I was pretty fed up. Maybe a bit of controlled rage would end this nightmare. “Okay, how’s this for making sense? After this little circus act is over, Sam Grayson will be filing criminal charges against all of you!”

  Unfazed, he asked, “Who’s Sam Grayson?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough!”

  We exited the building through a set of double doors. I looked around. We were standing at the top of a flight of steps that led down to a walkway, which in turn led to a large fenced parking lot. The lot was almost completely full.

  It was filled with row upon row of boxy bodies, waterfall grilles, landau roofs, two-toned paint …

  Row upon row of 1960s and 1970s cars.

  That was the moment when my illusion of reality, as Einstein described it, came completely loose from its moorings.

  My knees turned to water.

  The detective caught me in his arms just before I fell headfirst down the stairs.

  He eased me down to the walkway. Fortunately, his car was parked nearby, because he was forced to half-carry me the entire way. My mind had gone numb, reminding me of those few moments of consciousness when I was lying on the riverbank.

  As we stumbled along, his strong arms around me began triggering memories.

  Memories of an older Marc—strong and capable and so deeply in love with me.

  Memories of an older Marc—the man who had followed me for my entire life.

  I was afraid to speak. We reached a big unmarked sedan. He opened the front passenger door. I sighed to myself, relieved that he wasn’t confining me in the back. I saw a broad bench seat, and a radio and emergency equipment console mounted under the dash. I allowed him to lower me onto the seat, unready to give up his comforting arms.

  He clicked my door shut and strode around the front of the car. My eyes tracked him, recognizing the confident gait, the confident bearing …

  What are you doing?

  I brought myself up short. Here I was in an advanced state of shock—imprisoned in some surrealist nightmare—and finding myself attracted to a young stranger.

  Was he really a stranger? Or a thirty-year-old version of the most irresistible man I had ever known?

  What the hell are you thinking?

  With this new reality overwhelming my senses, the persistent remnants of my old reality kept clawing this way and that, stubbornly determined to find a rational answer.

  Maybe I’m hallucinating.…

  Maybe I had lost my mind. Maybe at this very second, my 2011 self—my real self—was locked in a seven-by-nine room at the Florida State Hospital. Maybe at this very seco
nd, I was under court-ordered psychiatric observation.

  If that was it—if that was my true reality—how would I fix it? How far back would I have to go to identify the turning point? The microsecond in time when all reason failed and my sanity collapsed?

  The train wreck?

  Finding Marc’s photo record of my entire life?

  Finding the bodies in Tribe’s cabin?

  Noticing Marc in the back of my courtroom?

  Farther back?

  Young Marc got into the car. He slipped the key into the ignition.

  “This is impossible,” I stated dully.

  “What is?”

  I didn’t know how to answer, so I backpedaled. “Why did they send you—I mean, you in particular—to pick me up? Why not … the deputy who came to see me?”

  “Tattersall.”

  “Yeah. That one.”

  “He’s County. Our office caught your file, and my lieutenant asked me to follow up. There are two reasons I’m here. First, we’ve been trying to make some sense out of the information you gave Tattersall.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook. “That street address…”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a plant nursery.” He looked straight at me. “And your phone number doesn’t exist.”

  I held his gaze for a second and then looked away. This sickening new reality was turning my world upside down and I wasn’t ready yet.

  “The deputy said that was the only information you gave him—name, address, phone number.”

  “I was barely conscious. Gertie made him leave.”

  “You told him you were in a train accident. Gertie mentioned that as well.”

  It occurred to me that this might be a setup engineered by the creepy Dr. Bland, so I stayed silent.

  He continued. “Look, I’m sorry! It seems clear that you’ve been through some kind of trauma. But I do need to ask a few questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as your date of birth.”

  This should be interesting, I thought.

  I went for it. “November fourth, 1979.”

  “Try again.”

  “That’s when I was born! The first day of the Iran hostage crisis! And you know it! You followed me!”

  “I know it? First of all, it’s a ridiculous answer, and secondly, I’ve never seen you before in my life!”